The Laughing Elders
by Folles Guy
Summary: Chapter Five: in order to track down the weapon that seems to have made Torontonians catatonic, the Doctor and Martha have to go to the place imagination goes to die.
1. Chapter 1

Hello.

About a year ago, I started writing a _Dr. Who _novel called _The Laughing Elders_. It was to be a story in three parts; I completed the first part. Then, I tried to interest BBC Books, the publishers of _Dr. Who_, in publishing it, but they only accept submission from writers approved by the producers of the TV series. Makes sense. So, I contacted the agent of Russell T. Davies to see if I could interest him in it, but she politely informed me that he was too busy. Okey doke.

I've decided to put the complete first third of the novel on my Web site, _Les Pages aux Folles_ (.ca), in September to celebrate its seventh anniversary. Until then, I've decided to give those interested on this site a taste of the story: I will publish a chapter every second week of July and August.

I started writing the other two parts of the novel, but moved on to other projects when I hit the BBC wall. If there is any interest, I may take them up again.

Enjoy,

Ira Nayman

**Dr. Who: **

**The Laughing Elders**

**PART ONE: Harlequin's Toy**

Chapter One

The Day Seemed To Go On Forever

Once upon a time, there lived a young man by the name of Gerrald Gregory Galaudet.

Gerrald Gregory Galaudet (Gah-low-debt, not the French pronunciation, if you please) looked out the window, as he did every morning. And he saw the same middle class buildings, streets and trees that made up his surroundings that he saw every morning. In the distance, he could make out the CN Tower, the world's tallest freestanding structure. At least, it had been for 25 years, until a taller one had been built in…Dubai? Well, somewhere like that. Everything changed.

Well, not everything. In a few moments – assuredly less than a minute – Gerrald Gregory Galaudet's mom would shout from the kitchen that his – what day was it? Tuesday? – his scrambled eggs were ready, and he should come down and eat them before they got cold, and he would, and then he would put on his galoshes and his fall coat (it being fall and all) and he would walk the 15 city blocks to his high school, where he would suffer through a math class that didn't teach him anything he didn't already know, then an English class that couldn't teach him anything that he cared about, and then he would have lunch – on Tuesdays it was broccoli quiche because his school was trying to get its students to eat better and what he wouldn't give for a burger and fries, not that the school board ever consulted **him** on the subject – or any other subject, for that matter – but no time to worry about that because Eric Haversham would make a remark about geeks and all of the girls around them would laugh and Neil Ackerman would follow this with a remark about black geeks and Gerrald Gregory Galaudet would get all red and recite math problems in his head to take his mind off of it until it was time to go to…gym, which occasioned more laughter and general embarrassment and he hated taking showers so he usually just hung around in the back of the locker room until it didn't look stupid for him to change into his clothes and then he had chemistry so at least nobody noticed the smell and he ran home as fast as he could (because, as much as he weighed, he could be fast when he wanted to be) and straight up to his room past his mother who always had questions about school that he just didn't feel up to answering even though he knew he couldn't avoid them at dinner and –

"Gerrald?" Gerrald Gregory Galaudet heard his mother call from the kitchen. "I've got your eggs ready for you. You really want to eat them before they get cold."

The worst thing was that she was, of course, right. He did want his scrambled eggs, and he did want them before they got cold. It wasn't just that the only thing that seemed to change was the CN Tower – although, really, Gerrald Gregory Galaudet thought, it hadn't changed at all, just the way we looked at it. Wait – what was he – oh, yes. The sad thing – the thing that really got him was that he wanted his scrambled eggs. He wasn't just comfortable with his scrambled eggs. He hadn't just accepted them. He really liked scrambled eggs.

That was the thing about life –

"Gerrald?" Gerrald Gregory Galaudet heard his mother call from the kitchen. "Your porridge is ready for you. Come and get it before it gets too cold to eat – you know how much you hate cold porridge!"

Gerrald Gregory Galaudet, much as he loved his mother, was annoyed that she interrupted him as he was pondering the deeper disappointments of his young life. He was about to shout an angry response when he stopped up short. Did she say porridge? This was Tuesday – porridge was the Friday morning breakfast. Uncertain, Gerrald Gregory Galaudet turned the screen of his computer and checked the date. No, it was definitely Tuesday. Maybe he mishear –

"Gerrald?" Gerrald Gregory Galaudet heard his mother call from the kitchen. "Pancakes are ready. We don't have a lot of syrup, but we'll make do. In any case, you really want to come down and get them before they get cold."

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. That was just wrong. His mother never made pancakes because Gerrald Gregory Galaudet couldn't stand them. Hated them. Gagged the last time he tried to eat them, which was when he was seven years old. What –

Gerrald Gregory Galaudet went to the kitchen to eat his scrambled eggs –

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet went to the kitchen to eat his porridge.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet went to the kitchen to eat his pancakes. He loved his pancakes and wished, not for the first time, that his mother would make them every day.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet, ignoring his mother's increasingly urgent calls to breakfast, stared out his window and let his mind wander to what his life would have been like if his father hadn't left them when he was eight months old. As usual, he didn't notice the tears until his cheeks were sodden with them.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet (Gah-low-day, not the English pronunciation, s'il vous plait) sighed and went to the kitchen to eat his scrambled eggs.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet, self-conscious that he needed to put weight on the skin and bones frame of his, went to the kitchen to eat his scrambled eggs.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet, confined, as he was, to a wheelchair because of his cerebral palsy, waited for his mother to bring the scrambled eggs to his room and feed him.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet, ignoring his mother's increasingly urgent calls to breakfast, stared out his window and let his mind wander to what his life would have been like if his father hadn't died in a bizarre shrimp boat accident when he was 12. As usual, he swelled with pride at the thought.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet went to the kitchen to eat his scrambled eggs, but found that his mother had burned them. That had never happened before. She was looking at them, her thin blue eyes not seeming to take in the smoking mess in the pan. Gerrald Gregory Galaudet quickly picked the pan off the burner and threw it into the sink. Then, he put his arm around her and tried to tell her that everything would be alright. Everything was going to be alright.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet walked past the kitchen, out the door of the apartment and, still in his socks, threw himself in front of the nearest bus. This would have been tragic if the bus hadn't been stopped at a traffic light.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet went down to the kitchen and gave his mother a big hug. "I'm not hungry this morning, mum," he told her. "Maybe I'll get something between classes…"

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet shouted from his room, "I'm not feeling well! I'm going back to bed – maybe I'll have something to eat later!"

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet started to move towards the door of his room. Then, he wondered why he bothered and stopped. But he knew he had to do something with his life, he couldn't very well stay in his room forever, so he might as well keep doing what he was doing until something better came along. But what if this was it? What if life didn't get better, just different kinds of…of this? He was about to counter this argument when his mother called to him again, and he went down to the kitchen to meet his fate.

- Gerrald Gregory Galaudet looked out the window one last time at the CN Tower in the distance. So distant. So inscrutable. So like his life. And he went to the kitchen to meet his scrambled eggs.

Five minutes later, Gerrald Gregory Galaudet's mother, wondering why he hadn't come for his breakfast, knocked politely on the door of his room. Getting no response, she tentatively opened the door. To her horror, she found Gerrald Gregory Galaudet on the floor, curled up in a fetal position. His chest gently moved up and down – he was still alive – but nothing she said or did seemed able to make him move.

NEXT: Chapter Two: A Very…Kind of…Vowelly Sort of Place


	2. Chapter 2

Hello.

About a year ago, I started writing a _Dr. Who _novel called _The Laughing Elders_. It was to be a story in three parts; I completed the first part. Then, I tried to interest BBC Books, the publishers of _Dr. Who_, in publishing it, but they only accept submission from writers approved by the producers of the TV series. Makes sense. So, I contacted the agent of Russell T. Davies to see if I could interest him in it, but she politely informed me that he was too busy. Okey doke.

I've decided to put the complete first third of the novel on my Web site, _Les Pages aux Folles_ (.ca), in September to celebrate its seventh anniversary. Until then, I've decided to give those interested on this site a taste of the story: I will publish a chapter every second week of July and August.

I started writing the other two parts of the novel, but moved on to other projects when I hit the BBC wall. If there is any interest, I may take them up again.

Enjoy,

Ira Nayman

**Dr. Who: **

**The Laughing Elders**

**PART ONE: Harlequin's Toy**

Chapter Two

A Very…Kind of…Vowelly Sort of Place

"Toronto."

"Toronto?"

"Yeeesss?"

"What? In Canada?"

"That would be the one I was thinking of, yes."

"Why?"

"Wellll…it's a very…kind of…vowelly sort of place, isn't it?"

"Vowelly?

"Absolutely. Toooo-roooon-tooooo. Caaaaa-naaaaa-daaa."

"You want to go to a place…because it's vowelly?"

"Can you think of a better reason to go someplace?"

With a laugh that surprised her, Martha admitted that she couldn't. The Doctor fiddled with a couple of knobs, hit a few switches, earnestly read a metre or two and, with the slightest sigh, the TARDIS started making its way toward the Canadian city. No, not fiddled and hit, exactly. Although it seemed, at first, like cheap slapstick, Martha had noticed that the Doctor's hands made very precise movements over the TARDIS control panel, as if he was playing a musical instrument. In an admittedly slapsticky way.

"Interesting fact about Toronto," the Doctor cheerily continued. "Some say it is the most multicultural city on Earth. People from all over. People with a variety of different backgrounds. And it works! I'm not saying there aren't problems – put three human beings in a room together and there are bound to be problems. But people can learn to get on with each other – and Toronto is proof!"

"Do we need coats?" Martha asked.

"Mmm…because of the cold, d'you mean?" the Doctor asked back.

"Umm, yeah."

"I suppose we should also take a gun. You know. For the moose."

"Doctor…"

"We'd need the protection. There are some angry coatracks on those moose."

"Doctor!" Martha protested. "I've never been to Toronto. I've never been to Canada. How would I know what to expect?"

The Doctor smiled. Martha thought she should be angry that he was winding her up, but she felt herself smiling back. The Doctor's smile was infectious that way. "Actually, it's the middle of summer in that part of the world," the Doctor informed her, "so we don't have anything to worry about in that department. Normal clothing all around. Did you know that Yonge, the street we'll be landing on, is the longest street in the world?"

Imagine looking at the rear end of a long shopping mall. Across the street, three jets of water rise and fall in front of an empty square. Giant screens are all over the place – a serious case of Times Square envy. If you were in the TARDIS, you would hear Martha ask the Doctor, "Are you sure it's a good idea to materialize in the middle of a large city?" On the street, you would hear a loud mechanical wheezing, like the gears of a carnival ride that has seen better days but wants to give the children one last thrill before it packs it in for good. Then, an old-fashioned blue police call box appears outside a Hard Rock Café next to the square. One moment there is nothing. The next moment, a shimmering. The moment following that, the police box.

The moment after that, the door opens and an unlikely couple emerge. One is an attractive young black woman in jeans and a brown leather jacket. The other is a tall, thin scarecrow of a man in a pinstripe suit, quite natty, really, if you discount the ratty sneakers on his feet and the permanent dishevelment of his hair. "I told him," the man, the Doctor, was saying, "I said, 'Marshall, it's bloody brilliant, but who is going to believe the world is a village?!' But he just saw things that way, and you had to love him for…"

The Doctor trailed off. "What?" the woman, Martha, asked. Turning her attention away from The Doctor, she saw it, too.

People in the square had slumped in their chairs or slipped off and fallen to the ground, completely motionless. In front of the large shopping mall, a man was curled up on his side on top of a half-finished chalk drawing of a dove with the earth in the background; perhaps as many as a dozen people were curled up on their sides around him. All down the road, as far as the eye could see, people were curled up on the sidewalk, motionless. There were dozens of them. Possibly hundreds.

The Doctor ran towards the person nearest to them, an elderly woman. "Martha!" he shouted, pointing to a couple three feet away from them. "Go check them!" Martha ran towards the couple and knelt beside them.

The Doctor knelt beside the old woman. She looked calm, like she had just decided to lie down for a rest. In the middle of the sidewalk. He checked her throat for a pulse. There was one. "Still alive!" The Doctor shouted with relief. "How about your lot?"

"Still alive!" Martha responded.

The Doctor stood up and went to the next people on the street – a young woman and a child. Martha followed him. He knelt down next to them and felt for their pulses.

"That boy can't be more than five years old," Martha commented.

"They're still alive," The Doctor responded, standing up.

"What's going on?" Martha asked.

"Oh, typical Canadian celebration of summer, I should imagine," the Doctor said, almost breezily.

"Really?" Martha asked, knowing better. She wasn't surprised, therefore, when the Doctor said, "Naah. Just a bit of humour to mask the fact that I don't really know what's going on."

"You do do that," Martha told him. "It's a wonder sometimes –"

Before she could finish the thought, there was a big explosion somewhere not too far away. Martha flinched slightly, but the Doctor was already looking for the source of the explosion. Almost immediately, he started running down the street.

"Doctor?" Martha shouted after him.

The Doctor stopped and pointed to a column of smoke rising over one of the buildings three blocks away. "You know what they say about smoke," he told her. "I'll investigate. You keep checking people to make sure they're okay!" The Doctor started running in the direction of the smoke. He shouted something over his shoulder. Martha couldn't quite make it out, but it sounded like, "Well, okayish…"

Martha didn't know what to do, so she did what the Doctor told her. The next person she checked was a middle aged black woman. "That could be me," she thought to herself. "In 20 years time." She checked for a pulse, found one, and moved to the next person, a 30ish man in a smart suit.

As she moved down the street – towards the cross street the Doctor had disappeared down – Martha thought, not for the first time, that she had been left with the easy job while the Doctor ran towards the danger. That didn't seem fair. It wasn't like her life had been a bed of roses since the two had met. Just the opposite – she had stopped counting the times her life had been in danger during their adventures. And she supposed that by running towards danger and keeping her from it, the Doctor was actually trying to protect her. Chivalrous, that, if you thought about it. Yet there was something about it that rankled all the same. As she often did when thinking about the Doctor, Martha felt a confusion of emotions.

He had that affect on people.

Fifteen minutes and at least 30 people later – all of whom were breathing but otherwise catatonic – Martha came upon a couple. The looked to be in their early 30s. The man was Asian, the woman east Indian. Who were they, Martha wondered, before this happened to them? Were they in love? Were they happy? Did he make a lot of money? (Their clothes were posh enough.) Did she? Did they have families who would miss them if they…Martha thought of her own family. Sure, she could phone them at any time (literally), but it wasn't the same as being there, was it? She decided that it might be a good idea to –

Martha thought she heard a child crying. Listening attentively, she became sure that a child was crying. She ran down the street, past several catatonic bodies, the crying getting louder. Three blocks later, she came across a young couple, smartly dressed, curled into balls on the ground next to a baby carriage. Like the other people on the ground, they were alive, but catatonic. The little pink bundle in the carriage, on the other hand, was loudly – gloriously – alive.

Martha knew what to do – she had a younger brother, after all. She picked the baby up and, rocking it gently, cooed at it. The baby soon stopped crying and looked at her quizzically. Martha smiled at the child. The child smiled back. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew that she would do everything in her power to ensure that nothing bad happened to this baby girl, and that was enough.

She went off in search of the Doctor to find out what he might have to say about it.

* * *

The Doctor rounded a corner to confront a series of cars that had nudged each other before coming to a stop, all save the last one, which must have rammed into the last in the line with somewhat greater speed. Its engine was on fire. The Doctor ran to it, a small Japanese car, and opened the front door. Sitting in the car, apparently fast asleep, was a middle-aged woman with multi-coloured hair. Apart from a small trickle of blood on her forehead, she seemed fine. Well, fine for somebody who had completely lost consciousness at the wheel. The Doctor fiddled with her seat belt, then, getting her free, pulled her to the sidewalk and gently laid her down.

The Doctor immediately realized that if the engine in the car blew up, it could cause a chain reaction that would blow up all half dozen cars in the line. With grim determination, he set about freeing all of the catatonic people from their automobiles. He was having a bit of difficulty with the second from the front – a man who must have weighed at least 400 pounds – when he heard a woman's deep voice say, "Well, look at you!"

The Doctor looked around. On the sidewalk, a few feet away, stood a slender young woman. She was wearing a full body suit that clung to her form, a dazzling piece of cloth made up of diamonds in a variety of sizes and colours. A black mask, which matched her long black hair, covered her eyes. Around her throat was a black collar with silver studs.

"Well, look at **you**!" the Doctor replied.

The woman dramatically clasped her hands to her chest and said, "My hero!"

The Doctor tugged at the arm of the man he was trying to get out of the car, but he didn't have any leverage, so his effort didn't actually change anything. "Erm, yes, about that," The Doctor told the woman, "if you could give us a bit of help – much appreciated, you know."

The woman shook her head. "What would you learn from that?" she asked.

"That two people can carry a heavy man easier than one?" the Doctor ventured.

The woman laughed, a most agreeable sound. "I think we can take that as given, don't you?"

The Doctor was about to make a witty reply when the car at the back of the line did, indeed, explode, flames shooting towards the sky. The ground shook momentarily. Then…nothing happened. The Doctor thought for a second, then, putting the 400 pound man back into his seat, went to the first car. He shoved the driver, a young man who was not wearing a seat belt, into the passenger side of the car, then drove it a little ways down the road. The Doctor turned the car into a conveniently placed alley. Turning its engine off, he jumped out of the car and back to the car with the overweight man.

"Do you have a licence for that?" the woman cheerily asked.

"You can call for a copper," the Doctor responded agreeably, "after I've got these people out of harm's way."

Driving the second car was a bit trickier, as he couldn't really move the overweight man. The Doctor snaked his leg down to the pedals and steered as best he could. It wasn't dignified, and the car did swerve more than once. In the end, however, he managed to park it behind the first car in the alley. When he returned to the street, he expected the woman in the colourful diamond suit to be gone, but, to his surprise, she stood there with an amused expression on her face.

"Well done," she said.

"I'm the Doctor," he introduced himself. "And you are…?"

The woman feigned disappointment. "You don't know?" she asked.

The Doctor thought for a moment, then brightened. He did know. "Harlequin!"

The woman clapped in delight. "You know the Commedia dell'Arte!"

"I wouldn't say I know it," the Doctor modestly stated. "I only hung out in 17th century Italy for a couple of weeks…"

"You know, The Doctor is a character in the Commedia, but they never look quite as good as y…" Harlequin trailed off, as the import of what the Doctor told her sunk in. "Who are you? And why are you still conscious?"

"So, this is your handiwork, is it?"

"I asked first."

"Ah. Yes. Well. I'm a traveler. Just arrived. So, I must have just missed…whatever you did. It was you, wasn't it?"

Instead of answering, Harlequin touched a stud on her collar. An object immediately appeared in her right hand. It was a perfect crescent, very much like a sliver of the moon, in white onyx. It had several buttons on its surface.

"Where did you get that?" the Doctor, surprised, asked.

"I wanted two," Harlequin conversationally told him. "You know, a matching set. A little heavy for earrings, but maybe I could have worked them into a belt or something. All it takes is a little imagination. Well! Imagine my surprise when I was told that there was only one in the universe!"

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, "and it's safely locked up in the Galactic Ministry of Forbidden Weapons."

"Oh, is it?" Harlequin asked. She seemed genuinely surprised.

"Yes, yes," the Doctor grew a little testy. "I suppose the question I should have asked was: how did you get that?"

"Sorry, Doctor. One question per contestant." Harlequin pointed the crescent at the Doctor and pressed one of its buttons. A greenish blue light arced out of the end that pointed towards the Doctor until it was large enough to engulf him. Harlequin counted seven to herself, then took her finger off the button. The light vanished. Harlequin was surprised to see that the Doctor was still standing.

"Ah, I haven't had a good quantum energy ray bath in centuries," the Doctor cheerfully commented.

"How…?" she started to ask, astonished.

"I did mention I wasn't from around here, didn't I?"

Harlequin's frown was heartbreaking. "Oh, pooh. You're not…from the Time Police, are you? Did Harkness send you?"

"What, Captain Jack?"

"Aha! You are! You are from the Time Police!"

The Doctor grinned. "Naah. Captain Jack and I had some adventures together, but that was actually after he quit the Time Police. So, my past, the future of the Captain Jack Harkness you know. This time travel stuff can be a little confusing."

"Tell me about it," Harlequin said. "But, if you're not from the Time Police…?"

"Oh, I need to be taken much more seriously than the Time Police," the Doctor told her. "I'm a Time Lord." Harlequin looked blankly at him. Seeing that his announcement didn't have the effect he thought it would, the Doctor sputtered, "I'm a Time Lord. You know…a…a Time Lord."

"You know, that line might work with some girls, but –" Harlequin started. Martha chose that moment to arrive in the street. Harlequin turned the crescent on her.

"Doctor, you'll never believe –" Martha started.

"Martha!" the Doctor shouted a warning. Martha stopped dead in her tracks. In a blur of motion, the Doctor had his sonic screwdriver out and was pointing it at Harlequin as if it was a weapon. "You will do nothing to that woman," he commanded her. "Or that…baby she…appears to be carrying," he added, a note of amused confusion in his voice.

Harlequin was amused without a trace of confusion. "Or…you'll do what exactly?"

"My weapon will decompose you into your constituent atoms and spread them across the universe in order to ensure that they never reconstitute into you ever again. Ever," the Doctor told her in his most serious voice, which was very serious, indeed.

Harlequin sighed. "And we were having such an enjoyable conversation," she said before pressing a stud on her collar and disappearing. Without moving a muscle, the Doctor looked around, suspecting a prank. When one didn't immediately materialize, he put away the sonic screwdriver and briskly walked past Martha.

"Where we going?" Martha asked, huffing as she tried to keep up with the Doctor's long strides with the infant in her arms.

"We have to see a man about a gun," the Doctor, in his very best take charge voice, told her.

"Aren't you curious about the baby?"

"Time for introductions in the TARDIS!"

NEXT: Chapter Three: The Littlest Companion


	3. Chapter 3

Hello.

About a year ago, I started writing a _Dr. Who _novel called _The Laughing Elders_. It was to be a story in three parts; I completed the first part. Then, I tried to interest BBC Books, the publishers of _Dr. Who_, in publishing it, but they only accept submission from writers approved by the producers of the TV series. Makes sense. So, I contacted the agent of Russell T. Davies to see if I could interest him in it, but she politely informed me that he was too busy. Okey doke.

I've decided to put the complete first third of the novel on my Web site, _Les Pages aux Folles_ (.ca), in September to celebrate its seventh anniversary. Until then, I've decided to give those interested on this site a taste of the story: I will publish a chapter every second week of July and August.

I started writing the other two parts of the novel, but moved on to other projects when I hit the BBC wall. If there is any interest, I may take them up again.

Enjoy,

Ira Nayman

**Dr. Who: **

**The Laughing Elders**

**PART ONE: Harlequin's Toy**

Chapter Three:

The Littlest Companion

As the TARDIS control panel started humming, the Doctor looked at the baby in Martha's arms. The baby looked back at him, benign.

"Was it absolutely necessary –" the Doctor started.

"I couldn't very well leave her on the street," Mother responded.

"No. No, of course not. Absolutely not. Just wouldn't do." Pause. "Still, maybe you could have, I don't know, left it with your mother?"

"Yeah, right," Martha verbally rolled her eyes. "Hey, mum, I picked this baby up off the street – its parents were barely alive and it needs looking after – would you do us a favour while me and the Doctor go off and save the world? Yeah – that would have gone down a treat, that would."

"See what you mean," the Doctor glumly said. "But, I mean, still, no girlfriend or – OI, GET AWAY FROM THERE!" The Doctor swatted at the baby's pudgy little hand as it appeared to be making for one of the levers on the control panel. The little girl looked at him for a moment, startled, then started bawling.

"Oh, well done," Martha commented as she started rocking the baby back and forth.

"Aww, I didn't get close to it!" the Doctor protested.

"Her," Martha quietly hissed. "It's not some alien creature, it's a baby girl."

"She was reaching towards the control panel," the Doctor petulantly stated.

"Worried she might ruin something?"

"It's delicate," the Doctor lamely told her.

"Are you serious?" Martha couldn't believe her ears. "You knock it about like it was Charlie Chaplin or something. You really think an infant could do anything to it?" The Doctor seemed to be at a loss for words, a rarity for him, so, after a couple of seconds, Martha added: "Maybe you just can't stand the thought of more than one baby being on board!"

The Doctor almost sputtered something about the unfairness of the accusation when he caught himself. Instead, he hit something on the control panel. A door opened up. Not the usual one that lead outside. A door opposite that one which lead deeper into the TARDIS. Before Martha knew what was happening, he had disappeared into it.

Oh, great, Martha thought. This baby won't stop crying and the Doctor has left in a hissy fit. A minute or more passed before the Doctor returned, a small wooden cradle in his arms. "Put her in here," he quietly suggested to Martha.

Martha was dubious about the possible effects of the rickety old thing would have on the baby, but she knew better than to argue with the Doctor when he was being serious. So, she tenderly laid the baby down in the soft blanket in the cradle. It continued crying.

"Doctor, I don't think –" Martha began.

"I haven't turned it on, yet," the Doctor cut her off. He touched something on the side of the cradle, some button that Martha couldn't see, and the cradle began rocking itself. As she watched, a star with planets spinning around it was projected over the cradle. The little girl's sobbing slowly subsided. She grabbed for one of the planets in the mobile, but it was a hologram and her hand went through it. The Doctor and Martha watched as she fell asleep.

Then, the Doctor made a motion for Martha to follow him and moved to another part of the room. "I'm sorry, Martha," he said, "I don't know what comes over me sometimes."

"Well," Martha responded, "you spend all of your time solving mysteries and fighting evil monsters. Stressful work, that. I'm surprised it doesn't get to you more often."

"Yes," the Doctor soberly agreed. "I'm sure that must be it." Although he had told Martha about the destruction of Gallifrey and the end of the Time Lords, he had never mentioned that he had had children and grandchildren who had perished in the Time Wars. Before he could even think of telling her about them, he pushed the thought out of his mind, clapped his hands and said, "Well –" in his cheeriest tone, which also happened to be his loudest. The Doctor looked over at the crib to make sure he hadn't woken the baby. Then, with the same enthusiasm, but fewer decibels, he said, "Well, that was some adventure we had this morning. Or, from the position of the sun, I would say it was mid-afternoon. But, if that's the case, why is my stomach telling me I should have a little lunch?"

"Doctor?"

"Alright. Where did you get the baby?"

"Who was the woman on the street?"

"Ah, this time I asked you first."

Martha told the Doctor about all the people on the street. Finding the child was straightforward enough, so the Doctor only interrupted her a dozen times with questions. Then, the Doctor told her about his encounter with the oddly costumed woman.

"But, Doctor, who was she?" Martha asked when he was finished. More or less.

"You didn't recognize her?"

Martha thought for a moment. "I saw a show on telly when I was a kid," she said, "with a character that could have been –"

"Just so!" the Doctor enthusiastically clapped his hands. "Harlequin – Arlecchino, to use his original name – was a character in the Commedia dell'Arte – an old Italian theatre form. Aww, it was brilliant! No scripts – the actors improvised all of the comedy. It didn't last long, but the characters have been around in one form or another ever since."

Martha didn't entirely understand. "So, we were attacked by…a character from an old Italian comedy?"

"Or somebody taking on the identity of a character from an old Italian comedy," the Doctor nodded. "Yes. The good thing is that the weapon she was wielding explains what happened to all of the catatonic people."

"What weapon? You mean that white crescent thing she was holding?" The Doctor nodded seriously. "That wouldn't hurt anybody," Martha protested, "unless you threw it at their head!"

"Ah, looks can be deceiving," the Doctor told her. "The Quantum Gun is actually a really, really, really, really, really powerful weapon – and, that's five reallys, so you know I'm serious."

"Quantum Gun?"

"Yeah. Brilliant technology…in a demented sort of way. Want to know how it works?"

"Umm, okay."

"First, you need to know a little bit about quantum physics," the Doctor warmed up to the subject. He clearly enjoyed being in professor mode. "Imagine an atom moving through the universe. Let's call it…Molly."

"Why Molly?" Martha asked.

"Why not Molly?" the Doctor asked. "I used to know a girl named Molly – an opera singer and gun runner – it's a good name, isn't it?"

Martha shook her head a bit. "Uhh, sure."

You couldn't argue with logic like that. However, the Doctor didn't usually give you the opportunity, and this time was no exception, as he continued: "Okay. So, Molly's been hanging about since the Big Bang, right? She's just moved through space interacting with other atoms. What Molly doesn't know – can atoms 'know' things? – well, anyway, Molly doesn't know that, of the sesquidillion atoms around her, she is about to be singled out for an experiment. You see, humans – gotta love 'em – have developed a way to figure out where exactly an atom is in space, and they want to test it out."

"Oh," Martha tried to interrupt. "Doctor –"

But the Doctor was not to be deterred. "Now, a moving atom has two qualities: speed and direction. The problem with the human experiment is that when it detects one, it interferes with the other. So, if you want to know the speed, you have to change the direction. Where, and you're probably way ahead of me on this, if you want to know the direction, you kind of have to change the atom's speed."

"Actually –" Martha said, but the Doctor ignored her.

"Do you – humans – let that stop you? Naah! You want to understand the universe. Good on you, I say! So, what you do is you imagine all of the different paths through space and speeds that Molly could possibly have. This is the quantum world – alive with possibilities! Now – this is the tricky bit – how do these possibilities actually become the real world that we observe and live in every day? We observe it and live in it! You see, when a phenomenon is observed – when somebody actually looks at it, all of the possibilities collapse into the single reality – Molly, the atom, in all her glory! Have you ever heard of anything so brilliant?"

"Erm, actually, I have," Martha replied. "College physics course. I understand basic quantum theory."

The Doctor looked crestfallen. "Oh," he said.

"What I don't understand," Martha continued, "is how you make a weapon out of that."

"Ah, well, that's where we leave Molly behind," the Doctor said, once again enthusiastic. Imagine that the same idea is applied to you. You're Molly the atom. Now, think about you at this second. You have a choice: you can scratch your nose or ignore the itch. That's not all you can do, of course. You can…walk over to the other side of the panel…or ask for a cup of tea…or jump up and down for no apparent reason. Actually, it would be interesting to see you jump up and down for no apparent –"

"Doctor," Martha tried to interrupt, but it just brought the Doctor's wandering attention back to the main argument.

"Yes, well, let's keep it simple. You have a binary choice, a choice between two possibilities. This second. Then, each of those possibilities leads to two more possibilities in the next second. That's four. Then each of those leads to two more – that's eight. Eight possible choices in three seconds. If you keep going, in a single minute, you would have to make 23 to the power of 18 choices. That's 23 with 18 zeroes after it – in one minute! In a single day, you would face more choices than there are grains of sand in the Bahamas!"

"Why the Bahamas?" Martha asked. When the Doctor just looked at her, she twigged: "Yeah. Why not the Bahamas? Okay, I get it."

"Now," the Doctor continued, "in this universe, we simply make a choice and live with it. But, some people believe that every time we make a decision, a new universe is created where we made a different decision."

"Infinite alternate universe theory," Martha stated.

"Right," the Doctor agreed.

"But, Doctor, what this has to do with what happened to those people in Toronto?"

"Ah, well," the Doctor, answered, "that's where it gets really interesting. Ordinarily, we aren't aware of all of the alternative choices we didn't make, the paths not chosen, as it were. One of the effects of the Quantum Gun is to do just that. Imagine becoming aware of all of the different paths your life could take in the next few seconds…minutes…hours. The human mind can't process that much information, it's literally overwhelmed by it. So, to cope, it shuts down."

"Like people with autism."

The Doctor clapped his hands, delighted. "Exactly so."

"Why would anybody create such a weapon?" Martha wondered.

"It wasn't originally intended to be a weapon," the Doctor told her. "See, once upon a time, there lived…"

"Once upon a time?" Martha protested. "Are you telling me some galactic history or a bedtime story?"

"I'm telling you some galactic history that was told to me as a bedtime story," the Doctor explained to her. "Now, if I may…?"

Martha nodded sheepishly.

Once upon a time, the Doctor said, there lived a race of people called the Jan'Anda. They were quite scientifically advanced, and had all of the latest technologies: computers and telephones and indoor plumbing and vaccines against all manner of diseases and paperclips and clock radios and automobiles and automatons and washing machines and lasers and holographic movies and toothpaste and cloning (well, of lower life forms, in any case) and advanced calculus and printing and books and magazines and hydrogen power and…and, well, perhaps a list of the science and technology they had isn't the point. The science and technology that they didn't have is more to the point. And the one thing the Jan'Anda didn't have was flight. No Wright brothers had ever existed to show them how to get off the ground. As a result, they had no space travel.

One of the cleverest of this very clever race was a woman named Mok Jay. The Jan'Anda had a good knowledge of astronomy – they knew all about stars and planets and comets and novas and supernovas and black holes and – sorry. Like many of her people, Mok Jay wondered what they were missing, what kept them from developing a workable idea of space travel and, like all of her people, she couldn't imagine what it was. She spent many years attempting to build a machine that would take her people into space, with no success.

Around the same time, a Jan'Anda man – I like the rhythm of that: Jan'Anda man. It trips off the tongue, don't you think? Jan'Anda man? Aaaaanyway, a Jan'Anda man named Andrum Fwee developed his race's version of the infinite alternate universe theory of quantum mechanics. I haven't studied it myself, but I understand it was quite elegant. Fwee gave lectures at academic conferences – which, for the Jan'Anda, were something of a competitive sport and a little like a religion – which, come to think of it, isn't that much different from Earth's academic conferences – knowledge is revered throughout the universe, and…uhh, where was I? Oh, yes: it was at one of these conferences that Mok Jay was introduced to Andrum Fwee's theory. She realized that, if it could actually be applied, it could solve the problem she had been studying all those years.

How so? Mok Jay figured that if she could move through a variety of different universes, she would eventually come upon one in which the Jan'Anda had discovered flight. Then, she could return to this universe and bring flight to her people. Easy as pi.

Mok Jay was the lead scientist in her kingdom; Andrum Fwee worked for a different sovereign. Her first task was to convince her king to convince Andrum Fwee's queen to let the two of them work together. This was not as easy as it sounds – was, in fact, perhaps the most difficult thing this distinguished scientist ever had to do – since Mok Jay was not experienced in the arts of diplomacy. That's always the way, isn't it? A person with the confidence to lead a team of dozens of scientists has difficulty making a simple request of one person in power.

But she did. At first, the request didn't go over very well, since the two realms had only recently entered into an uneasy peace after decades of border skirmishes and other low level hostilities. However, the attraction of space travel (not to mention the riches that would be the reward for anybody who could achieve it) was greater than the mutual distrust of the sovereigns, and they agreed to let the two scientists and their teams work together.

For all of Andrum Fwee's theoretical knowledge and Mok Jay's prowess at building scientific instruments, it took them and the teams working with them over 30 years to develop the Quantum Gun. The records – of both their scientific experimentation and Jan'Anda society in general – end at this point. However, we can guess what happened. Mok Jay and Andrum Fee didn't know what power they had. They turned on the gun, but it didn't work the way the expected, and it was far more powerful than they had anticipated. Instead of taking them through a variety of alternate universes, its power slowly spread across the entire planet, shutting down the brains of everybody its rays touched. Imagine it. Millions of sentient beings curled into balls, their minds shut down because they couldn't cope with the possibilities unfolding in front of them.

The only reason we know this story at all is that over 100 years later, a merchant trading vessel passed through their solar system. It hadn't planned on making any stops, but a science officer doing a routine scan of the planet's surface noticed patterns that couldn't have been natural, and, he correctly reasoned, must have indicated intelligent life. Only, when a landing party reached the planet's surface, they didn't find any life. Only skeletons and meticulous records of what happened to the Jan'Anda.

And the Quantum Gun.

"That's horrible!" Martha told the Doctor.

The Doctor nodded grimly. "That's why we have to find the gun and reverse its effects," he responded. "Then, we must find a place for it where it can never harm anybody again."

NEXT: Chapter Four: Interlude, With Soy Sauce


	4. Chapter 4

Hello.

About a year ago, I started writing a _Dr. Who _novel called _The Laughing Elders_. It was to be a story in three parts; I completed the first part. Then, I tried to interest BBC Books, the publishers of _Dr. Who_, in publishing it, but they only accept submission from writers approved by the producers of the TV series. Makes sense. So, I contacted the agent of Russell T. Davies to see if I could interest him in it, but she politely informed me that he was too busy. Okey doke.

I've decided to put the complete first third of the novel on my Web site, _Les Pages aux Folles_ (.ca), in September to celebrate its seventh anniversary. Until then, I've decided to give those interested on this site a taste of the story: I will publish a chapter every second week of July and August.

I started writing the other two parts of the novel, but moved on to other projects when I hit the BBC wall. If there is any interest, I may take them up again.

Enjoy,

Ira Nayman

**Dr. Who: **

**The Laughing Elders**

**PART ONE: Harlequin's Toy**

Chapter Four:

Interlude, With Soy Sauce

Underground caverns. Lots of planets have them. They're always dark and dank, with the sound of dripping water in the background. In a specific cavern on an unnamed planet, one spared the noise of chattering rats, at least, three unlikely characters are sitting down to dinner.

"Mmm, I love Chinese takeaway," Harlequin said through a mouthful of lemon chicken. "You gonna have that extra egg roll?" she asked a fussy little man with a black bird's head on top of his body sitting on the opposite side of the rock they are using for a table for their cardboard cartons, paper plates and cups and plastic utensils.

"Yes!" the birdman squawked. Harlequin removed her chopsticks.

The third person sitting on the ground around the rock, a tall, muscular blond in sheepskin clothing, looked up from the plate full of ribs that he is in the process of ravenously devouring long enough to ask, "So, how did your story go?"

"I was interrupted!" Harlequin complained. "It started off well enough: the Quantum Gun worked as it was supposed to. However, before I could reverse the effects, this man showed up. Not only did he know what the Quantum Gun was, but he chased me away with a weapon of his own. Oh! – and you know what the worst part was? _The Quantum Gun didn't work on him_!"

The blond man looked impressed. The birdman looked worried. "Who was this man?" he squawked.

Harlequin shrugged. "Calls himself the Doctor."

"That's all?" the birdman pressed her.

"Oh, yeah," Harlequin continued. "He said something about being a thyme lord. I thought that was weird. I mean, why should I be impressed with somebody who has control over seasonings?"

"A Time Lord!" the birdman seemed to shrink a little into himself.

"Uhh, yeah," Harlequin agreed, uneasily.

The birdman clucked to himself, "A T…T…T…Time Lord. This can't be good. Not good. Not good. Not –"

"What's the problem?" the blond man asked.

"The Time Lords are…legends," the birdman explained. "Their race was ancient when my people were evolving. They have…powers."

"So do we," the blond man assured him. The three discussed how Harlequin could bring her story to a satisfactory conclusion. They eventually agreed that she should return several hours later, after the Time Lord had presumably lost interest and left. Throughout,

the birdman was very nervous and unhappy.

NEXT: Chapter Five: The Place Imagination Goes To Die


	5. Chapter 5

Hello.

About a year ago, I started writing a _Dr. Who _novel called _The Laughing Elders_. It was to be a story in three parts; I completed the first part. Then, I tried to interest BBC Books, the publishers of _Dr. Who_, in publishing it, but they only accept submission from writers approved by the producers of the TV series. Makes sense. So, I contacted the agent of Russell T. Davies to see if I could interest him in it, but she politely informed me that he was too busy. Okey doke.

I've decided to put the complete first third of the novel on my Web site, _Les Pages aux Folles_ (.ca), in September to celebrate its seventh anniversary. Until then, I've decided to give those interested on this site a taste of the story: I will publish a chapter every second week of July and August.

I started writing the other two parts of the novel, but moved on to other projects when I hit the BBC wall. If there is any interest, I may take them up again.

Enjoy,

Ira Nayman

**Dr. Who: **

**The Laughing Elders**

**PART ONE: Harlequin's Toy**

Chapter Five:

The Place Imagination Goes To Die

Imagine the largest hangar in the galaxy – 100 football fields long and at least 20 high. Spaceships of all descriptions – from the tiniest little two-seater to vast starships that transported thousands of people – were in various stages of being ferried to a dock, letting passengers off, letting passengers board and being ferried to the exits. The heat would have been incredible, had the hangar not had the most sophisticated cooling system in the galaxy. And the sound! The sound would have been deafening without dampers built into the walls that detected a sound and reflected the same frequency sound back at it. People and machines worked around the ships, like ants working around a hill.

Now, imagine the TARDIS landing not quite in the middle – actually somewhat off to one side – but still in the thick of all of this. Martha, holding the baby, a pack on her back containing extra nappies, a plastic bottle full of milk and various toys, and the Doctor emerged from the TARDIS. The baby, holding a rattle, took the scene in wide-eyed.

"If nothing else, this will be a great experience for her – something to tell the grandkids, eh? Eh?" the Doctor practically cooed.

A valet on an upright two-wheeled vehicle sped up to them. He had a young face and an old uniform – impeccably clean, mind, but dark with gold trim on the shoulders. "Park your vehicle?" the valet asked.

"Best not, I think," the Doctor demurred. "She's fussy who she lets drive her."

"Well, we can't leave it here," the valet insisted. "Too much traffic. May I have your permission to move it against the wall?"

"Good thinking," the Doctor agreed.

The valet put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. A forklift immediately appeared. The valet gestured at the TARDIS, then at the nearest wall. Four arms appeared out of the sides of the forklift and gently rocked the TARDIS to get it mounted.

"There's no driver," Martha noted.

"Amazing what you can do with artificial intelligence these days," the Doctor told her. Then, turning to the valet, he asked, "When's the next shuttle to the Ministry of Forbidden Weapons?"

The valet consulted a screen on his scooter. "Twenty minutes," he said.

"Just enough time to get to the waiting platform," the Doctor announced. "If we hurry."

"One moment, sir," the valet said, running his fingers over a screen built into the handlebars of his vehicle. After a few moments, paper was spit out from a slit next to it. The valet tore the paper off and handed it to the Doctor. "Your receipt. Show this to the valet on duty to reclaim your vehicle."

* * *

To Martha's surprise, the shuttle was actually a rickety old bus. As far as she could tell, the planet was made up of huge buildings between which dirt roads ran. Everything else was desert. After half an hour on the bus, she could still make out the hangars where the TARDIS had landed, and could see several buildings at various distances all around them, all of which gave the impression of being at least as big.

"How long will it take us to get to this Ministry?" Martha asked.

"We're making good time," the Doctor said. "Shouldn't be more than…two hours?"

"Two hours!" Martha protested. "Why didn't you just materialize inside the Ministry?"

The Doctor looked chagrined. "Erm, yes, well, they frown on that," he told her. "Forbidden weapons and all – can't just have people materializing willy nilly all over the place…"

Martha looked at the Doctor penetratingly. "Is that all?" she asked.

The Doctor was spared having to answer because the baby started to cry. Martha figured it was hungry, and asked the Doctor to pull the bottle out of her knapsack. One of a pair of identical twins sitting two rows up turned to give her a dirty look, making it clear that, as far as he was concerned, the child's presence was unwelcome. The other twin hit him in the chest and they began to argue. Martha thought it was like looking at somebody fighting with himself in a mirror.

The shuttle was practically empty. Aside from the twins, there was an attractive woman (except for the clams where her hands should have been), a tiger-like creature in a military uniform and a three foot tall couple with bulges on their backs that looked suspiciously like shells. Martha was grateful that there weren't more…beings on the shuttle, partially because the baby – happy guzzling the milk from the bottle – wouldn't be disturbing anybody, but mostly because she would never get used to seeing too many aliens all in one place.

"Not exactly a popular hot spot, this Ministry, is it?" Martha asked the Doctor as the baby fed.

"Well, this is the hub of galactic government," the Doctor replied. "Much more important things for important people to do than visit a museum of weapons – monitor trade, argue about whose government has the right to rule a planet they fought a war over several hundred years ago, that sort of thing. Still, I daresay things will be hopping when we get there."

"When we get there," Martha said under her breath.

* * *

The top of the Ministry of Forbidden Weapons was obscured by clouds. It was flanked on either side by two buildings which, although perhaps 70 or 80 stories tall, only grazed the underside of the clouds. The buildings were close enough that there were walkways between them. As they walked into the building, Martha felt very small.

At the security desk, the Doctor flashed his psychic paper and they were given visitors' badges, even the baby. As they started walking down a corridor towards the elevators, the Doctor explained that the badges contained chips that told security where they were in the building at every moment. Before she could point out the obvious flaw, he added that they were keyed to the DNA of the people who wore them, and if a person tried to put their badge on somebody else, or a moving machine, it would sound an alarm. Since she wasn't planning any mischief, Martha thought that this was clever.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at a bank of elevators. The took one up to the 37th floor. Then, they walked down another corridor. Up a flight of stairs. Down another corridor. Down another flight of stairs. And they arrived at another bank of elevators. The elevator lurched sideways, moving them across for four or five minutes before making another lurch and going down 12 stories. The baby was getting restless, so Martha gave her a rattle. Then, they set out down another corridor.

"If I had known it was going to be this long," Martha commented, "I would have packed a lunch."

"That would have cost us another couple of hours," the Doctor told her. "Security does tests on all food brought into the building. Best to stick to the machines."

"And, am I mistaken," Martha continued, "or did we cross over into one of the other buildings when we were in the second elevator?"

The Doctor was impressed: "A lot of people miss that."

"Why not just enter this building?"

The Doctor shrugged pleasantly. "Security," he said.

Before Martha could pursue the subject, they reached a door that opened onto a huge waiting room with at least a hundred beings of various sizes, shapes and species sitting in chairs. The Doctor strode up to a large desk. To Martha, it looked like two women were seated practically on top of each other. They were both middle-aged, a little on the plump side. One had purple hair; the other, orange. The purple haired woman was talking on a small communication device, sort of like a cellphone. The orange haired woman was working at a computer.

"Hallo," the Doctor cheerfully said. "I'd like to see the Minister, please."

The orange haired woman looked up at him. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked in a tone of voice that conveyed that she would rather be skinned alive than having this conversation.

"Actually –" the Doctor began, but was immediately cut off.

"Take a number," the orange haired woman advised, and went back to her typing. Next to the desk was a number dispenser. The Doctor took a number from it: 347. Looking at the LED display above the secretary's desk, he saw the message: "Now serving: 12."

"I don't think you understand," the Doctor, still cheerful, stated. "I once did a little business for the Minister."

The orange haired woman looked at him. "I don't recognize you," she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Time changes us," the Doctor explained simply.

The orange haired woman sniffed at him, thought for a moment, then hit the other woman in the shoulder lightly with the back of her hand. "Guess who we got here?" the orange haired woman asked.

"I gotta go," the purple haired woman said, and put down the communications device. She sniffed the air and, with even more contempt in her voice, if such a thing is possible, she said, "Could that be…the Doctor?"

"Quite right," the Doctor answered.

"Take a number," the purple haired woman curtly told him, then turned her attention to her own computer.

The baby chose that moment to become bored with its rattle, which it promptly threw onto the ground. Martha bent down to pick it up. As she did, she couldn't help but notice that there was only one set of legs under the desk. Looking further, she saw that there was only one pair of hips seated in a single chair. That's why the two women looked to be so close: they were actually one woman with two heads and four arms.

Martha quickly got up. She would have told the Doctor about her disturbing discovery, but he was shouting, "Oh, come on! Anybody in my situation would have done exactly the same thing!"

"Do you know how much it cost to rebuild those three floors?" the orange haired…head shouted back at him.

"Do you know how much it would have cost to have to rebuild the whole Ministry?" the Doctor hotly asked.

Sensing that the baby was about to burst into tears over the tension in the room, Martha grabbed the Doctor by the elbow and pulled him over to chairs away from the secretary's desk. "That's the problem with people these days!" the Doctor fumed. "Can't see the big picture!"

"Doctor!" Martha whispered urgently to him. "This isn't helping!"

The baby started crying. Martha took out a piece of paper similar to the Doctor's psychic ID. She had no idea what the baby saw in it, but it almost immediately stopped crying and started gurgling and cooing contentedly.

"Aww, this is no good!" the Doctor groused as he watched the number being served change from 14 to 15. "We'll be here days waiting our turn!" Before Martha could respond, the Doctor got a mischievous look in his eye. He stood up.

"Doctor…?" Martha said in that tone of voice reserved for when she assumed he was about to do something that better sense should have told him was a bad idea.

"Won't be a tick," the Doctor assured her, and rushed out the door.

Before Martha could be troubled, the Doctor cheerfully bounced back in the door. Oh, good, she thought, he couldn't possibly have gotten into trouble in such a short time. "I'm glad you decided not to –" Martha started.

"Problem solved," the Doctor interrupted. He showed her a piece of paper that had the number 16 on it. "We're next."

Martha stared at it, her mouth wide open. "How –?" she started.

"You know," the Doctor told her, "I pulled the rudest face on myself on the shuttle into the Ministry as I was on the shuttle leaving the Ministry. I can be so immature at times! I have to say, though, it was a lot of fun. I should lighten up more!"

"You went back to the TARDIS," Martha marveled, "and traveled back in time to get a lower numbered ticket?" The Doctor nodded, pleased with himself. "That's cheating!"

"Well, everybody else goes one turn later," the Doctor rationalized, "but we don't have to wait here for days. All in all, not a bad solution."

Martha laughed. "It's bloody brilliant!" Before they could say anything further, their number came up on the board. The Doctor could barely contain his glee as he handed the number to the secretary. The orange haired woman stared at it in disbelief, but, finding it in order, sourly waved them into the next room.

The room was at least four stories tall and almost as wide. The walls were lined with shelves of books. At the far end was a desk, solid wood, old-fashioned. It took Martha and the Doctor over two minutes to walk across the room to the desk.

A short, non-descript man with a pencil-thin moustache was talking to a screen that they couldn't see. "Yes. Yes. I see. Thank you," he said. Then, with a wave of his hand over the screen, he turned his attention to them. "Doctor," he beamed, "good to see you again. The new look suits you."

"It's my pleasure, Minister," the Doctor matched him for charm.

"I don't get it," Martha, confused, said. "Your secretary would have been quite happy if we died of old age in the waiting room."

"Well, she's paid to make sure the niceties are observed," the Minister expansively explained to her. "I, on the other hand, am paid to make sure that the weapons in this museum are secure. And, you may be…?"

"Martha. Martha Jones."

"Delighted, Martha Jones." Martha was sure he would have taken her hand and kissed it if she had been within hand-taking-and-kissing range. "And, the child?" the Minister continued.

"Erm," Martha replied.

"Rose," the Doctor blurted. Martha shot him a "What did you have to go and use _her_ name for?" look. The Doctor responded with a "Sorry about that, but it was the first thing that came into my head" look. It's amazing how much you can say with just a look.

The Minister tactfully ignored this exchange, and asked, "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"We're here to help with the investigation," the Doctor told him. "Anything I can do to help –"

The Minister looked puzzled. "What investigation would that be?"

"The investigation into the theft of the Quantum Gun."

"Aah." The Minister pressed some buttons on the keypad on the desk in front of him. "Your offer of assistance would be most appreciated," the Minister stated, "except the Quantum Gun hasn't been stolen."

The man turned the screen to face them. On it were half a dozen small images of glass cases with strange looking objects. One of the objects was a white crescent with buttons on it. "Could that be a fake?" Martha asked the Doctor, who was frowning.

"I wouldn't think so," the Minister responded. "If any of the cases are in any way tampered with, alarms would go off. Not only that, but the cases are built with sensors that measure the mass of the objects within them. If the case had somehow been broken into – bypassing the alarms – and a fake was put in the place of the original, we would know. I assure you, the Quantum Gun could not have been stolen."

NEXT: Chapter Six: The Quantum Doctor

Look for the conclusion of _Harlequin's Toy_ on the _Les Pages aux Folles _Web site.


End file.
